


Trust Me

by 35_leukothea



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Gen, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-16
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:37:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/35_leukothea/pseuds/35_leukothea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If the Winchesters were to discover your self-harm habits. (Includes dream sequence and happy resolution. Severe trigger warning, more details under "notes.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Panic

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: self-harm (graphic depiction), panic attack || Second-person (reader POV), present tense oneshot, inspired by a Tumblr post. || UPDATE: I have decided to add at least one more chapter, just to see how it goes.

It's been long enough. _Definitely long enough_ , you think. Perhaps even too long. And you're alone, both the brothers off working on the hunt. Maybe it's just your uncanny determination to hate yourself, but you convince yourself rather easily that it's been long enough. After rummaging around in the depths of your bag for a few moments, looking for the unspeakable, you find a plastic bag with a few loose razor blades in it. The sight of it makes you shiver involuntarily—those blades have a scary history and a scary purpose, and you started using them for a scary reason. But it also makes you feel a bit better, knowing you'd have something more pressing to focus on, something to distract you with, at least for a little while. So you take them to the bathroom and shut the door, not bothering to lock it, and shake them out of the bag and into the low sink. You like the clattering noise when the thin metal hits the ceramic. You run the water for a couple seconds, washing off whatever dirt or dust made its way into the bag since the last time you'd used these, then shut it off without bothering to wash your own hands and pick up one of the blades. You could just use your knife, but then there is always the chance of having to use it and something crazy happening, like not wiping off all the blood or having a vampire scent it. Not that those are at all likely, but they are possible, and possibilities are dangerous.

Potentially.

You roll up the your left sleeve, thankful that you decided to put on black today without knowing what was to come. The marks there have mostly faded, but some of them are still visible, and when you run your hand over the inside of your forearm, you can feel the buildup of scar tissue over the spots you've previously cut open. You like the feeling, in a weird way. It's something to think about, another distraction. You place the delicate metal shard against your forearm close to your elbow and press the edge of it gently into your skin until it pierces through. Your breath catches in your throat, but you press harder, blood running freely now. Some of it drips off your elbow and into the sink, so you take the blade away and start running the water lightly again. The blood turns the water pink, but as you work your way down your arm, it grows steadily darker. You're on the fourth mark, almost to your wrist, when you hear a car door slam outside that sounds very suspiciously like the Impala.

You freeze and shut off the water immediately, ready in an instant to hide the evidence. There is no more noise, however, and you relax again. In those few seconds of panic, though, your attention was diverted enough that when you revert your focus, the full pain of the wounds you have just created hits you. You can feel them stinging and your own blood pulsing rapidly through severed veins. For a moment you cringe, clutching the razor blade so tightly that it cuts into your palm, which only makes it worse. You drop the blade, abruptly, as though burnt, and it makes a small clink as it hits the tile flooring. You swear under your breath and bend to pick it up, but just as you do so, the worst thing you can imagine happens.

The door opens.

You gasp audibly and stand up so quickly you almost hit you head on the sink, moving to block the view of the basin and stepping on the razor blade you dropped. At the last moment you jerk both you arms behind your back as Sam pokes his head through the door ajar.

"[Y/N]?" he says, sounding confused. "We thought you were asleep. Everything okay in here?"

You nod. "I'm okay," you assure him quickly. You can feel blood from your arm gathering into your cupped hand behind your back.  _Please go, please go, please go_.

He frowns a bit deeper. "You're breathing pretty hard," he points out, rather unnecessarily. 

It's true, you are, and you don't really know how to respond to that. "I, uh..." You trail off awkwardly, then shrug. "I hadn't noticed?"

He makes a suspicious _hmph_ at that. Suddenly his eyes dart downwards to where you're standing, like something caught his notice. You follow his gaze, starting to panic again— _but I'm stepping on it, he definitely can't see it, it's under my goddamn foot, he can't see it_ —and you inhale sharply when you see what he is actually looking at.

Blood. Beautifully red blood, fallen from your cupped fingers behind you and onto the white tile. You're so surprised that you gasp and take a step back, but you realize your mistake before you can fix it; Sam has seen the razors in the sink now, and the bloody one on the floor. For a moment you are both completely speechless. You can feel tears welling up in your eyes, and clench your left wrist in your right hand behind your back to keep your arms from shaking. _No. No, no, no, this is wrong, this is_ —

"[Y/N]...?" Sam whispers, utterly and irreversibly astonished. He opens his mouth to say something else, but is cut off and shoved aside by his brother.

"Hey, you two okay in here—?" Dean stops abruptly, seeing the razors and the blood on the floor, now flowing freely from both your arms. There is a long, heavy silence before he speaks again, softly and with poison in his voice. "What fresh hell is this?"

It is then, at hearing his tone of voice, so disappointed and distraught, that the crying begins. _They will never trust me again_ , you think miserably, not caring enough to even try and stop your tears. _I have lost my friends_.

You are expecting to be yelled at, chastised, berated, but instead Dean steps forward, Sam still in too much shock, and gently yet firmly pulls your arms out from behind you to look at them. The inside of your left forearm is now a mess of blood and dirt, your right palm no different. You try to pull a hand away to wipe your face, but he holds it fast. Probably for the better, as well; the salt water would do nothing good to those gashes.

The next few minutes are a blur. You can barely see for crying so hard. Dean leads you out into the bedroom and sits you down on his bed—you immediately feel bad, and want to protest that it's still your turn to sleep on the couch and that you're getting blood on his bedsheets, but you can't force yourself to speak. You're shaking uncontrollably, dizzy and cold and sweating, and vaguely note that he has proceeded to wash your cuts with a damp towel. Where had he gotten that? _When_ had he gotten that? You can't tell how long it's been. Where is Sam? You wince and yank your arm away as pain suddenly shoots through your wounds—Dean must've put antiseptic on the towel. You hear him hushing you, but the pain, intensified by your disorientation, is too great, and you tug both arms away, clutching them to your abdomen. Instead of trying to wash the cuts more, Dean drops the towel and pulls you against him, cradling your head against his shoulder, and you continue to sob uncontrollably into his chest. He breathes slowly and deeply, and you unconsciously begin to mimic those patterns, unaware that you were hyperventilating and close to fainting until your vision gradually clears. You stop crying, and after a moment, you let him clean and bandage your gashes. The pain doesn't stop, but it dulls and becomes fainter as you feel yourself falling from your panic attack into unconsciousness. Your lightheadedness does not help this sensation, and after a couple more minutes. you are practically asleep in Dean's arms. He tries to get you to lay down, coaxing you gently out of your clinginess, but spots start appearing in your vision as your position is changed, and you rise to the verge of hysteria once again. You calm down much more quickly the second time, though, and become conscious enough to realize that Sam is sitting on the bed opposite you, rummaging through your bag, with a grave expression. The razor blades from the bathroom are sitting on a napkin next to him. Tears well up in your eyes once more, but you blink them back.

_They will never trust me again._

And it is with this pleasant thought that you fall asleep, still clinging to Dean as he lies down next to you on his bed, his breathing still forcedly deep and slow to keep you from losing its pattern again. He pulls a blanket over your shivering form and kisses the top of your head. Then you are gone.


	2. Railroad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Certain emotions will do funny things to a person—and to what they dream.

It is chilly when you wake. You blink several times and sit up straight, then look around—you are sitting on a bed of dry red and brown leaves, fallen from tall, old trees that branch out overhead, obscuring your view of the cloudy gray sky. You wipe your eyes and stand, observing your surroundings further. To your left you see a disturbance in the even layering of the fallen leaves, and you walk to it. You bend down and brush the leaves away, revealing two parallel, rusted metal beams with wooden planks crossing over them, spaced out with equal space in between. Train tracks.

A sudden breeze sweeps your hair back from out of your face, and at first you think nothing of it, but it grows stronger and stronger, until all the leaves covering the tracks are gone. But the wind does not cease; it strikes you and batters you and you are stumbling over your own feet attempting to fight it. You cry out, but the noise is torn from your throat and finally you are thrown to the cold, hard ground. But then it slows, becoming lighter and softer, until it is merely a whisper in your ears. 

 _Stand, child,_ the wind says, gently pushing you back to your feet.  _Plenty awaits thee ahead._

"What awaits me?" you ask, spinning around, but the wind is gone. The wood is calm again. You turn and face the direction the wind had pointed you in and begin walking along the railroad.

You walk for years, it seems, never tiring, never getting bored. There is so much to look at in this wood. Though the wind has left and the air is silent, you learn to hear the trees speaking, the earth breathing, the insects singing. It is always early autumn, always chilly, but you don't shiver. Locked in time, the forest never changes—until the day the wind returns.

You feel it before you hear it. It is the same as last time, shoving and buffeting and howling, tripping you over the train tracks, until it calms. This time is whirls about you, speaking to you from all directions at once.

 _Thou hast done well thus far, child_ , it says, its voice faint and echoing. _Following the rails was a wise decision. Soon ahead thou shalt see that for which thou hast come. Follow thine Brothers. They shall show thee the way._ There was a light rustling of the leaves at your feet, and the wind was gone before you could ask any other questions.

You continue to follow the tracks, unsure of what else to do and unsure of what the wind meant by your "brothers." After mere minutes, you realize that the wind's coming had arisen a certain disturbance in the time-locked wood: winter had begun.

It begins to snow, lightly but persistently—however, it never gathers high enough to hide the railroad tracks from view. Frost crunches beneath your feet, and one day, there arrives a newcomer. There had been animals in the forest previously, but few had shown themselves, and certainly none as clearly so important and majestic as this. It came quietly, and causing quiet itself; the trees had not been so quiet and shown such respect since the day you arrived.

It steps out from inside the labyrinth of dark wood and ice, with a thick gray-and-black cloak, proud yellow eyes, and regal ear tufts. It looks at you with a gentle expression, and you know immediately who it is.

"Brother Lynx!" you call, running towards him, but as soon as you get too close, he turns and retreats back into the underbrush. "Brother Lynx, the wind said to follow you."

You run after him, repeating his name. Every few minutes, he shows himself, and you track his large, agile pawprints through the snow. As you run, the ice melts and the cold weather dissolves into spring. Leaves grow and flowers blossom. It is then that the Lynx ceases the chase.

You find him sitting like a cat, calmly and patiently, his wide, earnest eyes looking at you with interest. You approach him cautiously, afraid he will begin to run again, but when he doesn't you, sit in front of him, cross-legged. "Hello, Brother," you say. "The wind told me to come."

He bows his magnificent head once, slowly. "You have strayed from the tracks," he responds.

You are so surprised that he can speak, that for a moment, you yourself are speechless, staring at him with your mouth slightly open, rather like a fish. "I...I didn't mean to. I was following you, Brother Lynx."

The lynx smiles, showing his sharp teeth. "You should not be surprised I can speak, [Y/N]," he says evenly. "You know the wind speaks, you know the trees speak. Why am I different?"

You hesitate, unsure why he is asking this question. "I suppose because no other animals have spoken with me," you explain eventually. "I didn't know they could."

"Well now you know," he says. "I will show you the way back to the tracks. Someone is waiting for you there." He stands, and you stand with him. "Oh, and the wind wishes me to remind you of something, [Y/N]. Your choices are just that—yours. You are the one that makes them."

You frown, not quite certain why he is telling you something so simple. "Yes, I understand," you assure him. 

"Is there anything you wish to ask me?"

You shake your head. There are so many strange things in this place, but none of it seems to need explaining. "No, Brother."

"Alright, then. Walk with me, and I will take you back to the tracks." The two of you begin through the forest again.

"Will you be coming with me the rest of the way? After you take me to the railroad?"

"No, I will meet you once you reach your final destination."

"Where is that?"

He laughs. "Wherever the wind takes you."

You look at him. "So that is who we are meeting at the tracks? The wind again?"

"No, but one much closer to the wind than I. Come, we must hurry."

You run the rest of the way, the lynx pacing himself so that you can easily keep up with him. It is summer by the time you reach the tracks, and they are overgrown by grasses and weeds. The metal beams burn in the hot sun, but the temperature still does not bother you. The leaves turn a dark, rich green, and the birds sing loudly overhead. One flies down from a low bough and lands at your feet as you and the lynx finally stop running. The bird extends its black-and-white wings and ducks its head, almost like it is bowing to the lynx, who returns the respectful gesture, lowering his nose to his front right paw. Then they both straighten, then sit.

"[Y/N], this is Brother Quail," says the lynx. "He will lead you the rest of the way. I think you will find he is easier to follow than I am."

You look at him disbelievingly. "But Brother Lynx, he  _flies_ ," you protest. "He's so much smaller."

The lynx smiles again, this time in almost an evil way, his yellow eyes turning to slits. You shiver involuntarily. "Yes," he admits, "but unlike I, he is not so keen to leave stragglers behind." He stands. "Farewell, [Y/N], and good luck." Then he turns, and with incredible grace and speed, scampers off through a patch of daisies back into the underbrush, crushing the bright flowers beneath his heavy paws.

There is a moment's silence before you turn to the quail. His appearance is similar yet different to that of the lynx. His cloak is patterned as well, and he has a delicate head with a large black plume that dips over his small beak. He is much lighter and smaller.

"[Y/N]," he says. "I've heard much about you."

You cock your head slightly. "Really?" you say incredulously. "From who? What is there to say about me?"

He ruffles his feathers importantly. "I have my ways. The wind speaks to all who wish to listen, as I'm sure you know. It is time we set off. Your journey is nearly finished." He flaps his wings and takes to the air, and you crane your neck to look at him. 

"Can we run?" you call up to him. "I want to know what's at the end of these tracks!"

His only response is a high cry before he takes off through the trees, zigzagging through the low branches, and you sprint after him, excited, laughing and tripping over the rails until you remember how to run again. You run for a long while; Brother Quail is not as talkative as Brother Lynx. Summer fades into autumn once again, where it all started. You run and run and run, but the end of the tracks does not show. Finally, the quail lands.

"[Y/N]," he says. "This has been uneventful, has it not?"

You shrug. "I've been here for years, Brother. barely anything happens anyway."

He makes a funny little trill—his way of laughing. "But now we have come full circle," he says, "and you have still not asked any questions. I think you will find that help will always be given to those that need it here. Keep that in mind. Now, look to your right."

You do as he says, and as soon as you turn, there appears three large wooden chests on the side of the railway. "What are these?" you ask, glancing over your shoulder to look at him—but he is gone. "Brother Quail?"

 _The Brothers are not allowed to stay here,_ whispers a voice in your ear, and your hair is blown away from your face as the wind suddenly returns.  _Thou must choose on thine own._

You frown, unsure what that means, but say nothing. You approach the first casket and open it, expecting to see something of even slight interest, but instead, what you encounter confuses you more.

"Leaves?" you wonder aloud.

 _From an ash tree_ , the wind agrees.  _And sprigs of yew._ _Move to the next one._

You take a few steps to the right. The second casket has a few acorns sitting atop it, and you brush them aside before opening it. "...it's the same thing."

 _Look again, child_ , the wind encourages you.  _Leaves of holly, branches of blackthorn. They are different._

"Oh," you say. "Um...okay." You step towards the third one, but the wind abruptly shoves you back.

 _Not yet, child_ , it says.  _First thou must choose._

"Choose?" you repeat. "Don't I choose between all three?"

_Yes, between all three. What thou knowest or what thou dost not. Choose._

You think for a moment. "Ash and yew or holly and blackthorn?" You bite your lip and stare at the chests. "Well, yew is toxic, isn't it? But blackthorn also has really sharp thorns. As for ash and holly, those are just normal, aren't they? So I'm really just picking my poison here. I'm deciding on the third one."

The wind swirls around you and rustles the leaves on the ground, and after a moment you realize that it is laughing.  _Of course, child, whichever thou wishest for, whichever thou seest fit. Open it._

You do as the wind asks and approach the third casket. You open it with some difficulty; it's much heavier than the others. You hoist it open, then brush your hands free of dirt, glance inside—

There is an enormous crash of thunder as the gray autumn clouds finally release their storm. You scream and jump back, clutching your hands to your chest as for some inexplicable reason they have begun to bleed. A blinding light erupts from inside the casket, magnified by the jagged shards of glass within. It is filled with nothing but wickedly sharp pieces of ceramic and crystal, dripping with unnaturally dark, thick blood. The wind laughs again, sounding almost psychotic, growing stronger and stronger, faster and faster, spinning you around until you trip and fall backwards onto the train tracks. You hear Brother Lynx laughing with it, and Brother Quail crying his strange cry. Then the light becomes too powerful and the world implodes in an instantaneous blast of utter silence. It is the loudest silence you have ever heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is an explanation of the harder-to-get symbolism from this chapter. (You'll understand the reasons I chose most of these pretty easily if you've seen even just the first season of the show.)  
> While walking down the tracks, there were two animals, a lynx and a quail. Lynxes traditionally symbolize secret-keeping, visions, and the supernatural is general—that's Sam. Quails live in groups, and they represent protectiveness and orientation around family—this is Dean. Later on the lynx walks across a bed of daisies, trampling them. Daisies represent innocence and secrets—this is the reader—and the fact that the lynx is crushing them symbolizes that Sam has discovered their secret. The quail, on the other hand, flies over them, leaving them untouched.  
> The first casket was Sam's: it contained ash leaves and yew sprigs. Ash was said to stimulate psychic dreams, and yew was said to enhance psychic or magical abilities, and induce visions. The second was Dean's: it had holly leaves and blackthorn branches. The acorns on top of it symbolized life, but holly was traditionally meant to ease the dead and dying (haha sorry), and also to attract women if carried by a man. Blackthorn, spiked with brutal thorns, indicated that there was some sort of outside force or power that was meant to be obeyed (sometimes just fate). Blackthorn is also a winter tree; its white flowers blossom before the rest of the trees' leaves in the springtime. As for the last casket, with the glass—well...that's just the self-harm bit. That's the reader's. That fact that the reader chose that one goes to show how broken their character truly is.


	3. Not Like This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But the only question is what's left. What's left to be done, what's left to believe, what's left to salvage. Certainly not you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This should be the last one. Unless, of course, if anyone wants more, because I can probably do that too. I ended up including female pronouns in this one, as hard as I've tried to keep it genderless before and girls are probably the majority here. Sorry about that, if it bothers you ;-;

You wake with a gasp and a violent start that nearly hits Dean in the face and you sit up straight immediately. At first you are confused, unsure of where you are and what just happened, but then all of last night's events come flooding back to you and you feel a bit sick. You glance at your bandaged hand—it's pale and it trembles when you unclench it, and it has bled so much that the bandage hasn't even dried completely yet. Your arm had evidently stopped bleeding much more quickly, but the gashes all still sting a bit. Your mouth and eyes are almost painfully dry, and for some reason you're still tired. You don't remember anything from your dream other than that you had it and that it had been nothing good.

You blink to clear your vision and glance at a window—it's still dark. Miraculously, Dean barely stirred when you jostled him, unaware that you'd awoken, so you lie back down, pull the blanket tighter around you, and nestle closer to him, curling into his deeply-breathing form. You vaguely note that you are glad at how corporeal and tangible your environment is, unlike that of the dream. You hope that you don't dream again; though you remember no details, you can easily recall the pure, unadulterated terror.

* * *

 The next time you wake, there is morning sunlight shining in through the threadbare curtains of the motel room, and you still don't feel all that well rested, but it's better than waking up in terror in the middle of the night. You don't open your eyes this time; maybe if you don't you'll just go back to sleep. You don't particularly feel up to facing Sam and Dean about what happened yesterday. Because we all know that problems go away on their own if you avoid them long enough.

...or something like that.

For a little while after you wake there's just silence, but then the door opens and someone steps in. They shut it quietly, since they think you're still sleeping. "Hey," Sam's voice whispers from near the other end of the room. "What'd Bobby say?"

You hear Dean sigh from by the door. He throws his jacket over the back of a chair and sits, then sets his phone down on the table. "Nothing," he says dejectedly. "Not a thing."

Sam sighs. "She hid it well," he admits, and your gut clenches.  _Oh._

"Damn straight she did," Dean mutters. "I can't understand why."

"I thought we knew more about her than that. Come to think of it, I'm not even sure I know where she's from. We just sort of picked her up one day, didn't we?"

You're not sure how, but you can feel Dean's eyes on your back. You roll over and he turns away, but you keep your head under the blanket for the most part so he can't see you watching them. "Yeah, we did," he says. "Maryland—Galesville or something. Early August, wasn't it? I feel like it was a Friday."

Sam stares at him. "How do you remember that?"

Dean snorts. "How could I forget the day a random girl on the streets kicked my hunter brother in the balls and stole his wallet?"

You smile to yourself at the memory, and Sam scoffs and shakes his head. "Yeah, and where were you at the time?" he says, feigning forgetfulness. "Oh, that's right, you'd fallen off the goddamn _pier_ , hadn't you—"

"Oh, shut up," Dean interrupts him, sounding sour. "We have a more pressing matter at hand, I think."

Sam sighs again and nods. "Yeah, we do. So, then, uh...you, ah, got any...uh..." He gestures meaninglessly.

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Don't hurt yourself," he mutters sarcastically, and you bury your face in your pillow to keep yourself from laughing.

Sam glares at him. He tries again and gets a comprehensible sentence. "You got any idea of why she did that? Or has been doing that?" 

He shrugs. "How can I? Research can't solve everything, Sammy, as hard as that may be for you to swallow. I think we just have to ask her."

You stop laughing; it feels like a brick has dropped into your gut or something. You fidget uncomfortably under the blanket, suddenly wishing you really were asleep again. You don't want to listen to the rest of their conversation if it's going to turn into something emotional, especially if it's about you. You don't need anyone's sympathy, anyone's pity, anyone's interest...they undoubtedly have better places to put those. 

"I don't really want to ask her," Sam admits quietly. "I mean, you know what she'll say, Dean—"

"I know, dammit." Dean cuts him off angrily. "She's said it before and she'll say it again. We're just going to keep telling her the opposite. Except this time it's more serious."

He hesitates. "It seems pushy."

"We have a right to be pushy if she's being stupid enough to cut her fucking arm open every other night!" Dean snaps loudly, sounding ready to throw something, and his words make you flinch. 

"Dean, shh!" Sam immediately drops his voice to a whisper and they both glance at you, thinking you're still asleep. You gasp and duck your head back under the covers, but they've already seen that you're awake.

"[Y/N]?" asks Sam gently. "You up?"

You don't respond; you're too busy pushing the heels of your hands into your eyes, forcing yourself not to cry again. You cried a lot yesterday, you can't cry today, too. Dean has a point. He's right, he's right.

You hear Sam stand up, but he doesn't move any further. They are both dead silent, and you are positive they can hear your shaky breathing as you try and force yourself to calm down. Finally, Dean speaks.

"Hey, [Y/N]," he says softly, "I...I didn't mean that, okay? I was upset. You're one of my best friends and I can't bear to see you in that sort of pain. I'm sorry."

His words are genuine, and they make you feel a little better. After a few seconds when you're sure you're not going to have another panic attack, you pull the cover off your head and sit up.

Dean exhales, relieved. "Are you okay?" he asks.

You nod. "I'm okay," you assure him, then clear your throat, surprised at how awful you sound. 

"How does your hand feel? It had barely stopped bleeding when I last checked it. You were still asleep."

You hold it up for them to see; it's still pale and shaky. "It hurts."

Sam turns and pulls something out of his bag on the floor. "Here," he says, tossing it to you—it's a roll of cloth bandages. "Rewrap your other arm, then get Dean to do your palm."

"What!" Dean protests immediately, disguising his flustered embarrassment with the usual outward appearance of being an asshole. (Of course, it doesn't fool either of you, but you don't want to make him uncomfortable so you don't bring it up.) "She can do it, she's a grown person."

"She's not a lefty," Sam retorts. "And I'm busy."

"No you're not!"

"I'm doing research."

"You're always doing research."

"I live and breathe research, don't pull my plug by forcing me to look away from it for half a second."

"I was going to go get lunch."

"It's not my fault you slept through breakfast."

Dean grumbles inaudibly and you laugh despite knowing that Sam has only turned sarcastic mode on to lighten to the situation. Nobody has forgotten what Dean said. They are trying to cover it up instead. "Fine," he mumbles. "But somebody's gonna get me some—"

"Pie?" you and Sam say at the same time.

For a moment Dean just looks back and forth between the two of you, then says, "Yes. Pie."

"What flavor?" you ask.

He looks at you, frowning slightly. "Are you actually planning to get me pie?"

You glance at Sam, one eyebrow raised, with an expression that says,  _Wow, can you believe this idiot?_ He makes an odd noise and bites his fist to keep from laughing. Dean scowls at him. 

"Fine," he repeats crossly, getting up and grabbing the bottle of antiseptic from Sam's bag. "C'mere, [Y/N], before I pull Sam's plug."

You manage a smile but your heart has suddenly begun to race as you remember how badly the cleaning alcohol hurt last night. Then you remind yourself you were having a mental breakdown last night and it was likely that your brain had overexaggerated the burning sensation. You kick the covers off and sit next to Dean on the couch, then unwrap the bandages on your arm; the cuts are all almost completely scabbed over. He dips a bit of antiseptic onto a towel, then hands it to you, and you cautiously proceed to wipe them off. To your relief, these hurt much less than they did last night, even the deeper ones. You hand Dean back the cloth but don't bother to rebandage these ones—these won't be bleeding again anytime soon. You expect him to protest, but thankfully he doesn't. Maybe he just doesn't want to bring the subject up.

You start to unwrap your palm and wince as the dry, bloody bandage pulls off bits of new clotting blood as well, and the long, deep cut begins to bleed profusely again. "Goddammit," you mumble absently, and Dean cracks a dry grin.

"That's gonna hurt really bad for a really long while," he says unhelpfully. "Probably won't heal very fast either, especially since it's your dominant hand."

You give him your best  _thanks, asshole_ look. "Aren't you just a bundle of sunshine? Just wash it already, before I punch you in the mouth or something."

Though your demeanor is simply annoyed, you're using it mostly to distract him from the fact that you have to grip your arm below the elbow to keep your hand from trembling as you hold it out to him. He puts a less-than-generous amount of alcohol on the towel, knowing that it will be painful, and very delicately takes your wrist in his left hand and turns it over so your palm is facing upwards.

"Okay, this is going to suck ass," he says, and you restrain yourself from responding with something along the lines of  _no shit, Sherlock_. "So we're going to do this like how they give you shots at the doctor's."

"Dean, you've never even been to the doctor's," Sam interjects.

"Bite me," he responds evenly. "You ready, [Y/N]? You look a bit sick."

You glare at him. "Can we just get  _on_ with it—"

"Okay, okay! Sheesh," he mutters, shaking his head. He dips the cloth back into the antiseptic momentarily, then without any warning, wipes the gash clean with a pressing-and-pulling sort of motion, rather than just dabbing it, to disinfect it completely—the downside of that is that any scabs that had started to form overnight were completely removed.

The noise you make when the alcohol touches the open wound is somewhere between a shriek and a groan. Perhaps it is because you are  _not_  disoriented, but this time around, the pain is incredibly vivid, more so than before. He turns the towel over and very quickly repeats the motion, then immediately begins to wrap your palm tightly.

"It's okay, it's okay," he says over and over, "it's done now, that's it, you're good now. [Y/N]? [Y/N], you with me?"

After a second, you manage to unclench your teeth enough to force out, "Yeah, I'm with you. Right after the world stops spinning."

Dean frowns. "Spinning? The world is not supposed to be spinning. Well, I mean, yes it is, but—"

"We get it," Sam interrupts, and both of you glance back at him. "[Y/N], do you feel sick? You must've lost more blood than we thought."

Bemused, you begin to shake your head, but that immediately proves to be a bad decision as a sharp pain suddenly flares up on the side of your skull. You inhale sharply and press your hands to your temple but the sensation is gone in an instant and you return to the real world. "Ow!"

"What, what?" Dean demands. "What's wrong?"

You cringe a moment longer then shrug, no less confused than before. "No idea. One of those weird split-second-long headaches. It's gone now."

"Huh. Weird," is all Dean has to say on the matter, but Sam seems more concerned.

"You still dizzy?" he asks.

"No. Bit lightheaded, though."

He looks at you for a moment, then shuts his computer and sighs. There is a short silence as you wait for him to speak, and finally, he does. "I think...I think we should postpone the hunt."

"What? Why?" Dean exclaims immediately, staring at his brother like he'd started speaking Enochian. "She didn't even lose that much blood, we've all seen worse, she'll be fine—"

"I  _know_ that, Dean," Sam says, sounding tired. "That's not the point. The point is...well...the point is being ignored, is what it is."

You swallow. You know exactly where this is going and you don't like it one bit. You look away and stare at your newly-bandaged hand instead. The bleeding had slowed. You pretend you are interested in it. "What's the point?" you ask cautiously.

"The point," Sam explains, "is that you, [Y/N], are not okay."

You blink a couple times. "I'm okay, I'm f-fine," you stammer nervously. "What do you mean? I'm fine."

At this, there is a short pause, then Sam laughs an sharp, derisive laugh that scares you. "'I'm fine,' she says!" he marvels, sounding poisonous. "Where'd you get  _that_ idea, [Y/N]? From the scars on your skin? The razors in the sink? Your blood on Dean's bedsheets?"

Your eyes are wide; you are more than a little shocked. The tone he uses and the words he says are not only harsh and scathing, but his expression is so full of held-back contempt that even Dean seems appalled. 

"Sam, just calm down!" he says. "It's not necessary to shout at her—"

"It's completely necessary!" Sam retorts. He tries to continue but Dean stands and gets up in his brother's face.

"No, Sam," he says, "you listen to me. We just keep switching, don't we? You're worried, I'm angry, you're angry, I'm worried, and all the time we're just scaring the living daylights out of this poor person, not afraid to yell at each other because we know she won't hate us any more for it. Truth is, we're both driven to the end of our wits. I  _get_ it, Sammy, you're upset, but you just can't shout at her like tha—oh hell."

You'd started crying again, and he'd seen as he turned back to motion to you. Sam's enraged expression falls off his face and he seems horrified at himself. He reaches out to comfort you, to take your hand, but you snatch it away.

"Don't touch me!" you snap.

"[Y/N], I—I'm sorry, I didn't mean it."

"Yes you did!" Your voice is weak and teary and you hate yourself for it. "You did and we both know it, and you know what? You're right. You're right. You're both right, Dean was right, you were right, I was  _wrong_." Your words are becoming more difficult to comprehend as you began to cry harder, despite trying to force yourself to stop. "Everything I do is wrong, my whole existence is wrong, I'm just a messed up little girl who doesn't know what she's doing, doesn't know anything about anything— _don't_!"

This time it was Dean who had tried to touch you, but he steps back as though burnt before you can shove him away. "We're trying to help [Y/N]."

"Well don't!" you say, glaring blearily up at him. "You're not supposed to! You're supposed to yell and get mad at me and tell me I'm a terrible person, but you're just arguing with each other over that you should be  _nice_ to me, why are you  _arguing_ —"

"[Y/N]!" Dean says sharply, then grabs your wrists a bit harshly and pulls them away from your face. You try to yank them back, but he doesn't let go. "[Y/N], look at me. Look at me! Don't you fucking pull that drown-myself-in-self-pity shit, okay? Don't you fucking do that or I swear I will hug you till you suffocate and kiss your stupid face, so help me nonexistent god."

He's trying to make you laugh, but you bite your lip and force yourself not to smile. You know he wouldn't really do that, seeing as you have a very strict "no unnecessary touching" policy, but in the past, he hasn't seemed to care about it nearly as much as Sam. He continues to talk, but you're only half-listening. 

"Listen, I don't care what went wrong in your fucked up childhood, I'm not big on the whole 'dramatic backstory' deal, and I don't care what you think of yourself or your life, but I  _do_ care what _I_ think of you, and I care that you're sad as hell and it's making you sick."

"I'm not sick," you say shakily.

"You're sick enough to hurt yourself, and from the look of it you've been doing it a while. And you've found out at this point that it does nothing good for anyone, but you don't care enough to stop. Well, you know what?  _I_ care enough. Me and Sam, we care a whole lot, so don't you try and say you deserve to be shouted at or that you deserve what you're giving yourself. And don't you even  _think_ about cutting up your pretty skin anymore. I've seen too many people in self-inflicted pain and misery in my life, mental and physical, and we are scratching you the hell off that list. You hear me?"

You swallow and nod. You're too upset to say anything more, but somehow, you feel a little better. A little. Not enough, but a little. There is a long silence. Finally, Sam speaks.

"So, uh..." He clears his throat awkwardly. "We're postponing the hunt, then?"

For a moment, you and Dean just look at him. Then you start laughing, laughing harder than you've laughed in a very long time, and Dean laughs with you. At first Sam looks a bit offended, then he begins to laugh too, and somewhere along the line your laughter turns back into tears, and you are sobbing and laughing and dizzy. You stand up and run to Sam, practically fall into his arms, and he catches you and rights you, letting you cry on him because he is too afraid you'll trip and hurt yourself to try and walk you back to the couch to sit. It is at this point that you remember your dream, the wind and the lynx and the quail, the chests full of leaves and bloody glass and the never-ending railroad. Standing in this crappy motel room with your friends and talking about hunting an angry ghost, crying and laughing and confused, you have never felt more complete in your life. Maybe you have reached the end of the train tracks. Or maybe there is more to come, you don't care. You know you can't go on like this, and at that moment, you tell yourself you'll change. No choice between caskets full of shitty symbolism, no creepy wind spirit to tell you where to go. Not like this. Not controlled by sharp little chips made of metal. You don't want to disappoint your friends. The little voice at the back of your head says it'll be hard. It'll be hard and you know it. But that voice will tell you what to do. Maybe it's conscience, maybe it's fate, maybe it's you going crazy. You just want your friends back, and that's important.

 _I can take you to the end of the tracks_ , says the voice. _I can lead you wherever you want to go. There's only one condition._

_You have to trust me._


End file.
